


Kismet

by DHW



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer (TV)
Genre: F/M, Humor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-16
Updated: 2019-06-16
Packaged: 2020-05-13 01:49:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,998
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19241380
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DHW/pseuds/DHW
Summary: There's a cat in his flat. A cat who also happens to be a burglar. It isn't a joke, but there is a punchline.





	Kismet

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Quaggy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quaggy/gifts).



Picture the following: London 2006. 

Specifically flat 11b, Monarch Way. A relatively recent development, in the grand scheme of things, consisting of the second floor of what had once been a rather grand Victorian terrace. Sash windows, high ceilings, and the strange soot-stained bricks common to areas of industry*. In the meagre garden, cordoned off from the street by a low wall and a wrought iron gate, a statuette. Venus, in lichen rather than fur, gazing forlornly at the No. 47 bus stop. And on the door, tucked away in the top left corner, a faint scratch in the paint. One made by cat's claws.

*And uncommon street cleaning.

This is the home of Rupert Giles. A home he was rapidly returning to, briefcase hooked in the crook of his elbow, a sodden copy of the Evening Standard held aloft in an attempt to shield his head from the downpour of the morning. His suit was rather the worse for wear. Grey wool, worsted, that would take an abominably long time to dry out. Not to mention the shirt beneath, which had become all but transparent in the three minutes it had taken him to traverse the grey streets from tube to terrace. Water had sloshed through stitching of his brogues, leaving his socks sodden. The only aspect of his attire that had retained some sense of its former glory was his tie, a paisley affair in dark blue, which hung defiant and glossy about his neck, seemingly untouched by the rain. 

In short, Rupert Giles bared an uncanny resemblance to the proverbial sodden rodent. And, as with everything else, it was a problem entirely of his own making, given the frequency of rain. 

He was not having a particularly good day. 

The first step on the slippery road had been that he had slept in, mostly on account of having spent too long examining the inside of his eyelids*. The second and third steps had much the same cause: forgetfulness. A USB stick hiding beneath a dog-eared copy of _The Da Vinci Code_ Giles would swear blind belonged to someone else, and an umbrella left in the stand by the door. This accounted for his early return to the flat, and the state in which he appeared at said flat, respectively. 

*They were dark and entirely unsurprising.

Upon reaching the front gate, he thumbed open the latch, and launched himself wetly towards the safety of the front porch. His keys jangled as he fumbled them out from the depths of his pocket and into the lock. A flight of stairs was all that stood between Giles and a pair of dry trousers. Accordingly, he bolted up them with the all the swiftness of an antelope, if none of the finesse, stumbling to his door. Another brief jangle of keys, and he stepped inside his flat.

The saying goes that an Englishman’s home is his castle. This is namely because an Englishman’s home is cold, draughty, and cost an arm and a leg. But it is also because one likes to think of one’s home as an impenetrable fortress, inaccessible to all but those with the correct set of keys and, house dependent, codes. However, anyone who has ever had their possessions make an inconspicuous detour into the back of an unmarked van, or the pleasure of dealing with Her Majesty’s Finest at three of the ack-emma will know this is nothing but an illusion. One swiftly broken by a set of lock picks. Or a carefully placed size ten boot. 

The door to Giles’ Canonbury château remained thankfully un-breached, the lock unpicked, and the entranceway generally unmolested. 

That was, however, because the thief had come in through the window.

*

There is an old Russian proverb that reads, ‘a clever thief surprises the master of the house’. However, in this particular case, it can only be assumed that the aforementioned aphorism had been interpreted entirely too literally.

“Who the bloody hell are you?” roared Giles, surprised. 

Understandably.

The intruder gave a startled jump*. There was a loud bang as the man, tall and dark and more mysterious than was really warranted, cracked the top of his head against the bookcase. A box file came clattering down with a jolt, sending bank statements and payslips showering across the floor like capitalist confetti. 

*It appeared that surprises were catching. Like yawning, but a great deal more stressful.

“Ah,” said the man, rubbing his head as he stood. “I do apologise. It appears I’ve made an error.”

“An error?” Giles spluttered.

The intruder turned to face Giles more fully. He was thin, all lithe limbs and sharp cheekbones, with black hair that flopped down across a pair of brilliant blue eyes. Eyes that watched Giles like a tiger. 

“Would you believe it if I told you I was here to check the meter and got lost?” said the man.

“No.”

The man nodded, sighed to himself, and then said, “In that case, I’m here to rob you.”

“Rob me?”

“Yes. Ten out of ten for your listening skills.” He looked down at himself and shrugged. “I’ll admit, the lack of a striped shirt and swag bag does leave some room for interpretation, but we’ll muddle through as best we can.”

Giles blinked. There was a thief in his flat. An affable thief, but a thief nonetheless. He looked the man up and down, assessing the new and alarming state of affairs. Giles had little doubt, if push came to shove*, that he could take him. The thief was tall, yes, but a great deal slimmer than himself. Giles also had the added advantage of coming to a standstill beside a hefty brass table lamp that would, in a pinch, do as a makeshift cudgel. And crucially, the thief had no weapon, and nothing in his pocke…

*Literally.

“Hang on a moment, that’s my dressing gown!” said Giles.

“And what excellent taste you have. Chinese silk. Very fine. If a touch too Conan Doyle for the more modern gent,” replied the man with a flourish, lifting the sleeve to admire the fabric. “Still, it suits for the moment. And does feel rather glorious against the old corpus.”

“If it’s all the same to you, the less I know about your corpus, the better.”

The man shrugged. The burgundy silk of Giles’ dressing gown shimmered with the movement. “Pity. I was about to give this treasure of a thing a glowing review,” he said. “Light, comfortable, and surprisingly airy around the unmentionables.”

Good Lord. 

“Please tell me you’re wearing pants,” said Giles, a note of pleading in his voice. 

“If only I could, dear chap. If only I could.”

Giles grimaced. “I suppose I ought to take that as some sort of silver lining, given that they could very well be my pants.”

The man only grinned in reply. His teeth had an unnatural sharpness about them that Giles didn’t like the look of. There was the suggestion of something feline in his manner. A cheshire cat; all grin and no trousers. Quite literally. 

“Anyway, this is all beside the point,” said Giles, shaking his head. He made a move towards the bureau in the far corner. “I’m calling the police.”

“Bit of an overreaction, don’t you think?”

“What calling the police on some sodding robber making merry in my flat? I think not.”

“Why? I’m not violent. Or particularly offensive. If anything, I’ve been rather charming.”

“You can be as charming as you like, but you’re still in _my_ flat, wearing _my_ dressing gown, rifling through _my_ things,” said Giles. He didn’t add, ‘you bastard’. But he did think it loudly enough that the burglar probably heard. 

“You do have nice things,” the thief agreed.

“I’m very aware of that,” hissed Giles.

“Still, the police? I’m hurt,” he said, placing a hand theatrically upon his chest. “We haven’t even been formally introduced and already you want to get the long arm of the law in for the old steel handshake.” 

“I’m a traditionalist,” said Giles. 

Keeping a wary eye on the intruder, Giles reached for the rotary telephone that sat atop the bureau. He lifted the receiver. 

“Aren’t you a little bit curious?” said the thief as Giles began to dial. 

“Curious about what?” he replied, hooking a finger in the rotary mechanism. 

_Nine._

“Why I’m here.”

“You’re here to rob me.”

_Nine._

“Yes. But don’t you want to know _why_ I’ve been forced to enter into a spot of casual housebreaking?” said the man. “I hardly look the part of the seasoned criminal.”

Giles paused, the final ‘nine’ no more than a few degrees away from the stop. 

“Nobody ever _looks_ like a criminal,” said Giles. “Otherwise criminal profiling would have an entirely different meaning.”

“You’re still curious, though, aren’t you?” pushed the thief. 

“No.”

“Of course you are. It’s only human, and I am 99% sure that you are a human. There is always that pesky 1%, but given that I spied a copy of Private Eye on your coffee table, I’m reasonably sure I’m right. Only humans are strange enough to poke fun at members of their own species. Well, that and the occasional corvid, though given that they haven’t invented the printing press as of yet, their satire is entirely more physical.”

“What?” Giles frowned.

“Corvids,” said the thief. “You know. Ravens. Crows. Great black feathery oiks who make a nuisance of themselves round towers.” 

“What on earth are you talking about? What have ravens got to do wit-” Giles’ eyes narrowed as realisation dawned. “You’re distracting me.”

“Of course I am! You’re about to call the police. It would be incredibly foolish of me not to.”

“Well it won’t work,” Giles replied, dialling the final number.

_Nine._

Giles placed the receiver to his ear and waited for the emergency operator. He kept his eyes on the intruder, watching the man rock back and forth on his heels. The thief’s sharp features held a curious expression. 

There was no answer at the end of the phone. No dial tone either. 

“What did you do?” snapped Giles, dropping the receiver in disgust. It clattered against the tabletop, the body of the phone giving a faint, tinny ring as the bell inside was jostled by the impact. 

The thief shrugged. “I disconnected the phone when I arrived,” he said. “Give me some credit.”

“Then why make such a fuss about calling the police?”

“I needed the time to pocket your mobile.” From the left-hand pocket of Giles’ dressing gown, he produced a slightly battered old Nokia. “Very thoughtful of you, leaving it on your mantelpiece like that.”

Giles groaned. Another thing he had forgotten, alongside the USB drive and his umbrella. He really had to cut back on the late nights. They were playing havoc with his memory. He wasn’t twenty any more. Hadn’t been for a long time, if it came to that. Scowling, he shoved his hands into his pockets and leant back against the bureau. 

“Why are you here?” said Giles.

“Honestly?” said the man.

“No. Dishonestly,” Giles replied, sarcasm dripping from his words. He pinned him with a glare. “Obviously.”

The thief seemed unruffled, and simply said, “Because you have something I want.”

“I don’t know what I expected,” Giles muttered to himself. 

“Was a bit of an obvious question, old boy.”

Giles pursed his lips in annoyance and continued, “And what item of mine proved so tantalising you had to break through my front door?”

“Slight point,” said the man. “I didn’t break through anything.”

Giles frowned. 

“Then how did you get in?”

“Though the window,” said the thief. 

“How? I locked them all before I left,” Giles replied, puzzled.

This wasn’t strictly true, as the thief pointed out. 

“Not all of them,” he said with a smile.

Giles looked the man up and down. “You fit through the bathroom window? It’s only half a foot across, if that. Pull the other one. It’s got bells on.”

“Well, granted, not like this, I didn’t.” The thief looked down at himself as he spoke. “I was a great deal smaller at the time.”

Giles’ frown grew deeper. “I don’t follow.”

“No. Of course you don’t. Nobody ever does.” The man’s grin widened. He looked for all the world like a cat with an unwitting bowl of cream in its sights. “Well, you see, this isn’t really me.”

The conversation seemed perilously close to descending into some form of abstract philosophy. Back at Oxford, now such a long time ago he scarcely remembered what had possessed him to go in the first place, he had read PPE*. Whilst politics and economics had been somewhat of a breeze, much to his surprise, philosophy had turned out to be more of a force 10 gale; something that only started to make sense when three sheets to the wind. The lectures on Descartes still gave him nightmares**. The ones he had deigned to attend, that was.

*At least from a technical standpoint. The fact that he had barely read anything at all didn’t seem to matter. 

**A classic case of ‘it’s not you, it’s me’. 

“Please tell me you’re not about to get all metaphysical,” Giles groaned, fearing the worst. “I honestly don’t think I could handle it at this stage. At least not without a cup of tea.”

The thief’s expression changed to one of slightly ernest innocence. “Oh, I’m sorry. Where are my manners? Would you care for one?”

“Oh, yes, plea-” Giles frowned. “Wait. No! That’s my tea you’re offering.”

The man paused for a moment, his head cocked in thought, his hands on his silk-clad hips. Giles had to admit, he cut quite the dashing silhouette, for a thief. Less of a Vinnie Jones knock off, more of a Grant (Hugh or Carey). So much for a good stereotype. 

“I could make a pot, instead,” said the thief, carefully. He shrugged apologetically. “I’m afraid I’m a little unfamiliar as to the etiquette in this sort of situation.”

The effect was disarming. However, Giles was having none of it. 

“I doubt Debrett’s has much to say on the matter,” replied Giles, teeth clenched. “And stop it. I’m not getting led on some merry conversational chase again. I want answers. Starting with the window,” he said. “How did you get through it?”

The thief pouted, and said, “Fine. If we really must do things this way. But I do think it’s rather rude. Whatever happened to the art of polite conversation? Does nobody teach anyone manners any more? No wonder the world is going to the dogs, I tell you. Why, I thin-”

“The window,” Giles growled, cutting him off.

The thief rolled his eyes. He crossed his arms, and leant back against the bookcase. 

“I’m a cat, alright? That’s how I got in.”

Whatever Giles had been expecting, it hadn’t been that. It felt very much like the beginning of some great cosmic joke. Or perhaps a terrible pun. 

“A cat?” Giles raised an eyebrow. He looked the man up and down, an expression of disbelief on his face. “Forgive me if I remain a little sceptical on that point.”

“Well, right at this moment, I’m not. But, I swear, beneath this hairless and somewhat debonair exterior, I am very much a pure-bred Tom. My name is Kismet.” He held out a perfectly manicured hand; they were too far apart to shake, but it was the symbolism of the thing that mattered. “I would say it is nice to meet you, but… well. You understand.”

Giles was no stranger to the _weirder_ aspects of existence. If his history with the Council had taught him anything, it was that, when it came to matters of the supernatural, the more unlikely something seemed, the safer it was to believe it was true*. 

*Also known as Wilkinson’s Zebra: when one hears hoofbeats, it is best to get out of the way.

Still…

“Kismet?” Giles snorted. “If you expect me to believe that, then you’ve got another thing coming.”

“Why would I lie?” Kismet said.

“You’re a burglar.”

“Just because I’m burglar doesn’t mean I’m a liar,” Kismet replied, affronted. “I haven’t lied to you once.”

This was broadly true. Though Giles did feel that there was a least a little dishonesty to be had in the whole breaking and entering side of things. 

Giles stood and thought for a moment. He reached into his pocket to retrieve his handkerchief. It was as sodden as his trousers. With a moue of disgust, he stuffed the offending article back into his pocket, and hunted for a dry section of shirt on which to polish his glasses. 

A cat. If it were true, and he had no reason beyond a deeply ingrained sense of suspicion to believe otherwise, then it certainly made things a little more difficult. The man stood nonchalantly in his dressing gown was not just a common thief, but a supernatural one. Depending on the particular flavour of supernatural, it could make ejecting him from the flat very difficult, police or not. 

“So aside from being a burglar, what are you? A werecat?” Giles asked. 

“Just a cat.”

“Who can take the form of a human?”

“When I fancy it.”

“No strings attached?

“Strings, leashes, or collars.”

Giles eyes narrowed as the mental cogs whirred. “So you’re a stray, then?”

Kismet looked offended at the suggestion. “I was a witch’s familiar, thank you very much. Dear old Emily has since shuffled off this mortal coil, but that doesn’t make me a stray. I have a home. It just happens to be slightly emptier than usual.” The cat sighed heavily. “I told her to be careful of the rosemary.”

“Rosemary?” said Giles, incredulous. 

“Anything’s a danger if you stick it somewhere you shouldn’t,” replied the cat snottily. “A bit of creativity and the world’s your murderous oyster.” He gave Giles a hard stare. “Besides, it was a particularly vicious sprig. Hardly her fault.”

Giles bristled at the cat’s attitude. Breaking in was bad enough; he was damned if he was going to be spoken to like that in his own home. The ruddy cheek of it!

“So what? Now that you’re witch-less, you decide that the best course of action, rather than, say, getting yourself a job, is to break in, transform, and then nick whatever you can get your grubby little paws on?” Giles asked snidely.

“Hands. Not paws,” Kismet corrected. “Have you ever tried to open a drawer without the use of opposable thumbs? It’s a lot harder than it looks, let me tell you.”

The cat had a point. A strange point, but a point nonetheless.

Giles blew out his cheeks, then said, “Excuse me if this is an obvious question, how do you take away what you’ve stolen from the house? Surely to get out of the house, you’d have to transform back into a cat, which would leave you at a distinct disadvantage when it comes to carrying your loot.”

“Ah,” said Kismet with a grin, “That supposes I’m planning on stealing something big.”

“Oh, the TV not appeal?” Giles said. “It is a few years old, granted, but I’m sure you could get a few bob for it down the Dog and Duck, no questions asked. That’s the sort of thing that usually tempts your average petty criminals, isn’t it?”

“Ah, but I’m not your average petty criminal.”

“That much is apparent.” Giles sighed. “So go on then. What is it you’re after, if it’s not something so average as my telly?”

“Now, now” Kismet replied, wagging a finger. “I wouldn’t be a very good thief if I went and told you what I was planning to steal, would I?”

“I’d counter that you’re not a very good thief regardless, given that we’re stood here, having this nice little conversation.”

“Well, granted.” Kismet nodded. “Still, it’s perhaps better to leave some mystery to the relationship, don’t you think? Things could get frightfully dull otherwise.” The cat sighed heavily. “You know, I never thought it would be this difficult.”

“What? Stealing?” said Giles. 

“Distracting you.”

Giles’ eyes snapped to the man’s hands; they were wreathed in red, his fingers making complex shapes in the air at his sides. His face breaking into a grin, Kismet gave Giles a cheeky salute and, with a click of his fingers, began to shrink. In the blink of an eye, instead of a man stood by the bookcase, there was only a crumpled dressing gown, from which a pair of white whiskers poked out. 

“No you don’t!” said Giles, as he leaped across the living room. He cleared the table and landed head first upon the meowing crumple of silk. His hands rummaged round for the cat. “Come here, you little bugger!”

After a frantic moment or two, Giles managed to grab the cat. Before Kismet could unsheathe his claws, Giles had him wrapped tightly in the dressing gown. Disarmed, Kismet found himself bundled unceremoniously into a laundry basket. Quick as a flash, Giles snatched back the dressing gown and upended the basket, trapping the cat beneath it. Keeping a foot atop the plastic base, Giles reached over towards the bookshelf. From it, he took three of the largest books he could find and placed them on top of the basket.

Kismet was well and truly trapped. He looked sullenly out from his plastic prison, hissing at Giles. 

“I could transform back, you know,” Kismet said. 

Giles, smirking, stood on the tips of toes and reached up and over the top of the nearest bookcase. After a few seconds of scrabbling, he retrieved a very large and very sharp knife. 

“I wouldn’t if I were you.”

“Spoil sport,” the cat said. “What are you going to do? Chop my whiskers off?” 

“If the mood takes me,” said Giles as he reached for the discarded dressing gown. “But first I’m going to make myself a cup of tea. And then, I’m going to get changed and call the police.”

“I wouldn’t,” said Kismet.

“Don’t tell me you’ve done something to the kettle?” said Giles, momentarily horrified at the thought of being rendered temporarily tea-less in his flat. 

“The kettle’s fine,” said Kismet. Giles wasn’t sure whether it was possible for cats to roll their eyes, but Kismet certainly gave it a very good attempt. “I was referring to you calling the police.”

“And why not?” Giles asked, retrieving his battered old Nokia. He moved to slip it into his pocket before remembering the state of his trousers. Tutting, he switched hands, moving the mobile to his right and the knife to his left. 

“How do you think it would go? The police come storming in here and what do they see, a man arguing with a cat. One look at you and it’ll be all elastic waisted trousers and plastic cutlery for the foreseeable.” 

“You honestly think I couldn’t force you back into human form if I really had to?” Giles asked. “Surely you’ve been around witches and warlocks long enough to recognise one.”

“I know exactly what you are. I do, however, remain dubious as to the extent of your power in comparison to mine. But that’s a pig we’ll fish from the ointment when we get to it. Besides, my form would be the very least of your problems if London’s finest were to pay a visit. I should think they’d be a bit more concerned about all that over there.” Kismet pointed a sharp claw towards the weapons trunk that sat beside the bookcase. “Going to raise more than a few questions, not to mention eyebrows.”

“All perfectly legal and above board.”

“Oh, I’m sure. Still, want to bet on your friendly neighbourhood plod knowing that?”

Giles thought for a moment. The cat was right; explaining himself to one of the Met would be altogether more trouble than it was worth, even if he did have the proper permits. That meant the police were right out as an idea. Which left only one option. 

Giles smiled. It was not a pleasant smile. 

“I’m going to call the Council,” he said. 

Honestly, what was the point of being a member of a super secret supernatural organisation if you couldn’t call them for help on occasion? They dealt with worse on a daily basis. A cat would be no match for a Slayer, and these days they had Slayers to spare.

Oh yes, Giles thought. Checkmate. 

To his surprise, the cat merely blinked. “Oh, I don’t think you’re going to do that either.”

“Oh?”

Kismet flexed his paws, and said nonchalantly, “Are the big wigs up at head office aware that you’re playing hide the stake with your Slayer?”

Giles spluttered at the insinuation. Why, the very idea was ridiculous. Buffy was, well, Buffy. Young. Bright. Beautiful. And he was… not*. He was her Watcher; it would be _wrong_. Or at least very, very unethical.

*At least by his Slayer’s exacting standards. He did like to think that he cut quite the figure given the right opportunity and audience. He was under no illusions regarding his considerable allure with the over 40s set. And the less said about the apparent appeal his bum held for the 70+ demographic, the better.

Still, despite himself, he felt the tips of his ears go red. 

“I am not sleeping with my Slayer,” he spluttered. 

Kismet’s eyes widened in surprise. “Then you’re missing a bloody good opportunity.”

“Oh yes, and what would you know about it? You’re a cat.”

“Great romantics, cats,” said Kismet. 

Giles snorted in disbelief. “Sure.”

“Oh yes. We have to be,” Kismet continued, “given our considerable anatomical disadvantage.”

“Pardon?”

“Barbs,” said the cat. “Takes a lot of tempting to get a lady to take the old love teasel.”

“Ah.” Giles blushed. “Ahem. Yes. Well.”

“Besides,” said Kismet, “even if I was about as romantic as a teaspoon, the thing about robbing people is that it takes careful planning. You have to scout out the premises. Record schedules. You have to really get to know your mark; their habits, their relationships. You don’t want to find yourself interrupted whilst you have your whiskers deep in someone else’s valuables.”

“Like now.”

“Well, exactly. Throws the whole thing off. And I consider myself a professional when it comes to this sort of thing.”

Giles frowned at the cat, feeling, for the second time that morning, as though his privacy had well and truly been invaded. 

“So you’ve been watching Buffy and I,” he said, his tone accusatory. 

“Buffy? And you laugh at my name. There’s no accounting for taste, I suppose. But yes. She. Buffy.” The cat flicked his tail. “A very interesting relationship you have.”

“She is my Slayer.”

“And nothing more?”

“No.”

“But you wish there was?”

“I don’t, as a rule, make wishes,” said Giles, who frowned before adding, “And we’re getting entirely off the point. Why are you in my flat?”

The cat’s tail flickered in annoyance. “We’ve already covered this. I’m robbing you.”

“I know that,” snapped Giles. “I’m not a moron.”

“The evidence to the contrary is mounting with every second.”

“What do you want?”

“If I tell you, will you give it me?”

“No!”

“It was worth a try.” The cat sat in silence for a moment, ears twitching. “You know, we’re a little bit alike, you and I. What was it that Shakespeare said? Something about curiosity and being like cats.”

“The phrase is ‘curiosity killed the cat’,” said Giles. “And it was Ben Johnson, not Shakespeare.” His frown deepened as his brain caught up with the conversation. “And I’m nothing at all like you, so you can stick that in your idiom and smoke it.”

“If you say so, old boy.” The cat gave him an amused look. “If you say so.”

*

Buffy Summers stood in the centre of her Watcher’s living room, surveying the strange scene before her.

“You bought a cat?” she said, peering into the plastic prison of the upturned washing basket. “I always thought of you as more of a dog-person, Giles.”

“He’s not a cat,” Giles replied. “And, as I’ve already told you, I didn’t buy him. He broke in.” 

“Looks like a cat to me,” said Buffy. “It’s the whiskers and fluffy tail that give it away.”

“Well he isn’t.”

The cat stared out darkly from behind the plastic grid. His tail flicked back and forth. His front paws kneaded the carpet. 

A large circle drawn in chalk surrounded the upturned basket. It was lucky that the carpet was a dark green*. A little smudged in places, but still just about continuous, the circle seemed almost luminous against it. At each of the four compass points stood a candle. A tea light, to be specific, on a saucer. Needs must. 

*It would have been luckier still had his floors had been laminate or tile. Chalk and soft furnishings rarely make a good match, and the less said about grass or grave dirt the better. Needless to say, spray paint had perhaps been the most valuable contribution to the occult sector since sliced frog.

“Alright, what is he, then? Some sort of demon? That why you called your friendly neighbourhood Slayer?”

She knelt down to get a better look, careful not to disturb the chalk. Giles took great pains not to stare as she did so, choosing instead to direct his considerable interest toward the decidedly less curvaceous lampshade on the far side of the coffee table. 

“No, not a demon,” he replied, gaze firmly fixed upon dusty tassels and damask that had seen better days. “When I found him, he looked human; he changed into his current form in an attempt to escape. I think he used to be a cat.”

“But isn’t a cat now,” she said with a note of amusement. “Despite being all cat-shaped and whiskery-y.”

“I wouldn’t like to say exactly what he is now.”

“If I might interrupt,” said a small voice from beneath the washing basket. “You could always just ask.”

“It talks!” said Buffy, surprised. 

“Oh yes,” said Giles. “He talks. Incessantly.” Giles glared at the cat. “His name is Kismet, and I found him in my living room earlier this morning, stealing from me.”

Buffy turned to look at Giles, raising a teasing eyebrow. “Stealing what? Cream? Tuna?”

Giles redirected his glare towards Buffy, “I don’t know what he was stealing. But given his reluctance to tell me, I suspect he had his sights set on something a little more exciting than the contents of my fridge.” He shoved his hands in his pockets and leant back against the arm of the sofa. “Since I found the little bugger elbows deep in that bookcase over there, logic would dictate that he was looking for a book.”

“Last time I checked, cats couldn’t read.”

“They can’t talk either,” piped up Kismet, “and yet, here we are.”

It was a good point. 

“So you admit that you were after a book?” said Giles, changing the subject, his tone quietly triumphant.

“I admit nothing,” replied the cat. “But if I was, you’re quite right, the bookcase would have been a very good place to start my search.”

“Lost your copy of Purrsuasion?” Buffy said with a grin. “Romeaow and Juliet?” She sniggered. “Of Mice and Men?”

“No Dick Whittington jokes?” said Kismet. “That’s a first.”

“Oh no it isn’t,” said Giles, trying and failing to hide a smirk.

The cat glared. “I refuse to dignify that with a response.”

From its home in the corner of the living room, the grandfather clock chimed midday. Rising slowly to her feet, Buffy picked up her mug from the coffee table. Steam curled gently from it. She took a sip. Giles watched as she contemplated the problem of the cat-that-wasn’t, and what exactly it had been doing in his living room. 

“What book would a sort-of-cat want from you badly enough to break into your apartment?” she said after a moment. “Got to be one you couldn’t get your hands, or paws, on so easy. Something limited print, maybe? Or banned?”

“I had much the same thought,” Giles agreed. 

“You really do have a rather excellent collection,” piped up Kismet from his prison. “A thief’s dream. Why, from here I can see,” the cat counted under his breath, “ten, no, twelve books that you really shouldn’t have.” He winked. “Naughty.”

Both Watcher and Slayer ignored him. 

“Told you that you should’ve kept your collection at the Council,” said Buffy. She poked an accusing finger into Giles’ chest. Giles grabbed the offending digit. “But you never listen to brainy old Buffy, do you?” 

“And I told you that I’m damned if I’m letting Robson put his greasy fingers all over my copy of _Practical Anathemas for the Modern Gentleman_.” Giles looked horrified at the mere thought. “It’s a first edition.”

“Yeah, and what would the Coven say if they knew you had it?” Buffy countered, leaning closer, trying half-heartedly to wrestle her finger back from Giles’ grip. “Or worse, you let it get stolen by Garfield the klepto over there in Al-cat-raz?”

“Garfield the klepto?” He rolled his eyes. “Really, Buffy.”

“No changing the subject,” she said, squaring up, eyes locked on his.

“I’m not doing anything of the kind,” came the retort. And a step closer. 

They were flirting.

“You so are.” 

Yes, definitely flirting. And that was a bit new. A strange sort of hope blossomed in his chest at the thought. 

“No. I'm simply wondering what the English language ever did to you to make you treat it so poorly.” 

“Well, you know what they say about rules,” Buffy said, her voice low, a smile curling at the edges of her lips.

A frisson of excitement shot through Giles, goosebumps chasing across his flesh in its wake. He fought back the redness he could feel creeping up his neck, feeling a little like a teenager. He relinquished Buffy’s finger, instead taking the opportunity to curl his hand around hers. 

“That following them is the polite and correct thing to do?” he said, his eyes darting, almost of their own accord, to her lips.

“Nice try,” she said with a grin. “And you’re doing it again. Changing the subject.”

Changing the subject. Changing the mood. Changing his stance to accommodate said changes in mood…

“And here I thought we were simply having a pleasant conversation.”

“Nothing’s ever simple with you.”

“Is that a complaint?”

“Just an observation.”

“Hmm.”

“I’m full of ‘em. Observations.”

“Really?”

“Oh boy, you’ve no idea.”

A polite little cough came from beneath the upturned washing basket. 

“Fascinating as this is,” said the cat with an air of boredom, “do you think you could perhaps take a break out of your busy schedules and rustle up some lunch. I’m practically wasting away here.” 

Giles jumped at the sudden interruption. He dropped her hand and took a step back, placing as much distance as he could between Buffy and himself without risking suspicion. Though, thinking about the little display they had inadvertently put on for their prisoner, it was too late for that. 

Kismet’s eyes flashed with something Giles felt looked dangerously close to smug self-satisfaction. 

“So. Lunch?”

*

Lunchtime came and went, bringing with it a plate of bacon sandwiches for Giles and Buffy, and a small bowl of cooked chicken for the cat. Prisoner though Kismet was, it seemed cruel to leave him hungry. The indignity of being trapped by a washing basket was deemed punishment enough for the moment.

Lunch also brought with it a number of questions, but unfortunately for the Watcher and his Slayer, little in the way of answers.

*

“Let’s think about this logically,” said Giles over a fresh cup of tea, the remnants of their lunch tidied away into the kitchen. “We have a not-quite-cat after a book. All evidence points to the book being of a rather rare or unsavoury persuasion, considering the means employed to get it. The fact that my collection in particular was the target suggests that it’s something so unusual that even the dodgiest of occult dealers couldn’t get hold of it.” He paused, then corrected himself. “For a reasonable price, that is, as I doubt Kismet has any use for curses that are the thaumaturgical equivalent of a ‘kick me’ sign.”

“Right,” said Buffy as she reached over for her cup, dropping in two sugar lumps from the bowl.

“Which narrows the search down to about…” He placed his tea on the coffee table and counted it out on his fingers. “Six books.”

“Assuming he is after a book.”

“Well, quite.” Giles pursed his lips as he thought, and made a clicking sound with his tongue. “So we have to consider the psychology of the individual.” 

“That’s a bit Poirot, old chap, don’t you think?” said Kismet from his place beneath the basket. He was busily licking his paws, a piercing blue eye pinned on Giles.

“Shut up,” said Giles. “So we have a stray cat that, presuming he was telling me the truth, was at one point a Witch’s familiar.”

“Not a stray,” said Kismet.

“Shut up,” Giles repeated to the basket. He turned back to Buffy. “Which, now that I think about it, probably accounts for the distinctly un-cat-like… talents he has. Magic does tend to bleed into its surroundings. Spend enough time around it, and things start to get rather interesting. And that’s just when it comes to inanimate objects. Something like a cat… Well, lets just say that it could lead to the emergence of some rather interesting new abilities.”

“Like becoming all human shaped,” said Buffy.

“And the complete and utter inability to keep his mouth shut,” Giles agreed.

“Hey!” Kismet said, the tip of his tail flickering across the plastic. “The sound of my voice has been favourably received on many an occasion. Shakespeare. Byron. Cher. I know all the classics. I’ve been told I do a charming rendition of Love’s Philosophy.”

Giles glared at the cat. “We don’t need a demonstration.”

But Kismet wasn’t listening.

“See! the mountains kiss high heaven, and the waves clasp one another;”

“Thank you,” said Giles, trying in vain to cut the cat off. 

“No sister flower would be forgiven, if it disdained its brother;”

Louder. “Thank you.”

“And the sunlight clasps the earth, and the moonbeams kiss the sea;—” Kismet paused, his eyes sparkling. “Care to continue, old boy?”

“No.”

“I think it would help.”

“What?” said Buffy. She turned to look at Giles. “Help what?” 

Giles glared at the cat. 

“Oh, well. Suit yourself.” Kismet’s tail flickered back and forth as he loudly proclaimed. “What are all these kissings worth, if thou kiss not me?” 

“I don’t get it,” said Buffy.

“What, the poem? I thought the implication plain enough, myself,” said Kismet. 

“We’re straying from the topic again.” Giles said, cutting over the pair of them. “The topic being Kismet and his uncanny abilities.”

“Witch’s familiar plus magic seep-age equals weird cat. Got it.” Buffy said. “But it doesn’t exactly help us find what he was busy stealing, does it?”

“On the contrary,” said Giles. “I think it gives us a very good indication.” He gave the upturned basket, and its grumbling contents, a hard stare. “A familiar without a Witch is an unusual beast. Often, when one dies, the other is soon to follow. Most go mad, but it seems as though Kismet here has escaped with his mind relatively intact.” He looked thoughtful for a moment. “In fact, if I were a betting man, I’d put money on him having escaped with more mind than he began with.”

“What do you mean, ‘more mind’?” said Buffy. “You’re starting to make as much sense as the cat!”

Giles rolled his eyes at the jab. As did the cat. 

He continued, “Well, think about it. Magic is like energy; it cannot be created or destroyed, it simply is, in one form or another, with the caster of said magic merely changing that form into whatever it is that suits their whims at the time.”

“So?”

“What if, and this is a bit of a long shot, I’ll grant you, when Kismet’s dear old mistress passed on, her magic somehow made its way into him?”

“Seems unlikely,” said Buffy as she glanced at the cat, who was busily kneading the carpet, pretending not to listen. “And anyway, even if any of that was true, why would he break in here?”

“Besides a case of rampant and undiagnosed kleptomania, I can only imagine it was to find answers.” Giles suggested. “What better place to find an explanation for a rare, occult occurrence than in a rare, occult book collection? Am I right?” he asked the cat. 

Kismet stared back at Giles, unblinking. “I think I’m going to exercise my right to remain silent.”

“That would be a first.”

The cat simply glared. 

“So what do we do?” asked Buffy after a moment. 

“Well, we can’t give him any of the books. That would simply be asking for trouble. The Magicks detailed in some of them are _not_ for public consumption, feline or otherwise.”

“Yeah.”

Giles took his handkerchief out from his pocket and began to polish the lenses of his spectacles thoughtfully. 

“Of course, there is nothing to stop either of us looking for answers in the books. After all these years, I’m relatively sure I can rely on you not to accidentally release something horrid on humanity.”

Buffy grimaced. “Oh, yay! Just what I love doing on my day off - research. Tell you what, how about you do the book stuff, and I’ll supervise? It’ll be just like old times.”

“There’s no need to shoot me down quite so quickly,” Giles said with a pout. “But you are right, I suppose, and I really ought to get back to work.” He looked at the clock. They were well into the afternoon. “Even if only for an hour or two.” 

“Work!” said Buffy with a snap of her fingers. “We could take the cat to the Council. Make him their problem.”

“Absolutely not,” said Giles, thinking of the cat’s earlier words vis-a-vis Buffy and the secret game of Hide-The-Stake that, despite all the flirting, they hadn’t quite got round to playing yet. Besides, even without the interference of a talking cat in his nonexistent sex life, there would be the reason for the break-in, and therefore the books to explain. The books he was absolutely not supposed to have. “It would lead to a number of entirely too awkward questions.”

“You could just let me go?” said Kismet. 

“I thought you were exercising your right to silence?”

“Why bother when you already have your neat little theories as to the whys and the wherefores of my escapades.”

“So we’re right, then? You want to know what you are?” said Buffy. 

“I’m ninety-nine percent sure I’m a cat,” said Kismet. “It’s the whiskers that give it away, don't you know.”

“Yeah, but I meant why you’re a cat that can talk and shapeshift and do magic and stuff.”

“Thing is,” the cat replied, “I’m rapidly coming to the conclusion that the whole _’why’_ of the thing isn’t all that important. And, if it was, then pilfering from your Watcher’s little collection wouldn’t be the best way of going about it. Therefore, lesson learnt. No nosy-ing in books, pilfering your parchments, or attempts at research, excetera, excetera. Cross my heart and hope to die, stick a wotsit in my something-or-other.” The cat looked up at Giles imploringly. “So can I go now? No harm done and all that.”

“What? No!” said Giles. “You broke into my flat.”

“For which I have apologised.”

“No you bloody well haven’t.”

“Alright, no I haven’t,” the cat grumbled. “But I didn’t actually steal anything, so is an apology really necessary? Can’t apologise for a sin I’ve not committed, can I?”

“I think the Catholics would beg to differ with you on that point.”

“Good thing I’m a dirty heathen, then.” Kismet paused. “Besides, you can’t keep me here forever. Not unless you really don’t care for this rug.”

Giles did care very much for the rug. An expensive persian affair in now faded scarlet wool. It had been a gift from his great-aunt Lavinia, who as well as being his favourite aunt of a really quite colossal bunch*, also happened to be the only member of his family with any sense of style. 

*Fourteen in total, mostly due to an abundance of x-chromosomes and the Giles family motto: _If one does not succeed…_

Busily contemplating the possible introduction of cat claws to his beloved persian rug, he almost missed the light tap at his side. Frowning, he turned to face his companion. 

“What about the Coven?” said Buffy with a grin.

“That’s brilliant.”

The light tap became a vicious elbow. “Don’t sound so surprised. I have my moments.”

“I can’t believe I didn’t think of it myself.” Giles fished his phone out of his pocket and dialed. “Hello, Julie? Its Rupert… Yes, Rupert Giles… Rupert from the Council… Yes… I’m very well, thank you... I’ve got a rather interesting thaumaturgical conundrum for you…”

*

His rug survived the afternoon unscathed. Much to Giles’ relief.

A few hours after he had put the phone down, Julie, head of the coven and all round no-nonsense individual, had snapped into being in the centre of his living room. On top of the coffee table, to be precise, one foot in the bowl of potpourri Buffy insisted added a much needed feminine touch to the room. 

Apologising profusely for the rudeness of her landing, Juile stepped from the table and towards the cat. Mid-fifties, sturdily built, and dressed in something offensively floral, she took one look at Kismet before upending the washing basket and gathering the cat into the fabric of her apron. 

“Poor puss,” she said to the hissing apron. Then, she turned to Giles and said, “Don’t worry, Rupert. We’ll take it from here,” before snapping back out of existence in a whirl of claws and Laura Ashley fabric. 

Giles blinked. As did Buffy. 

“Well,” he said as he leant against the arm of the sofa, hands in his pockets, puffing out his cheeks.

“Yeah,” Buffy replied. 

“Still, all’s well and all that.” He looked briefly at the clock. It was getting late. His stomach growled in agreement. “Dinner? As a thank you for your help this afternoon.”

“Depends,” she said. “Dinner as in just dinner, or dinner as in _dinner_?”

Giles blinked. Again. This time, however, Buffy did not. Instead, she stepped a little closer. Giles found he could just about feel the warmth of her through the fabric of his shirt. It was thrilling sensation. 

“Perhaps, dinner as in date?” he said shyly. “I-if you’re amenable to the idea, that is.”

“Oh, I can be amenable.” She grinned, placing a hand upon his arm. “Very amenable.”

“I think I’d prefer it if you were Buffy.”

The hand squeezed. 

“Funny guy.”

His heart almost stopped. 

“I try.”

“So we going out or staying in?” she said. “‘Cause if we’re going out, then I've got to change. Sweats and a tank isn’t exactly prime date material.”

Giles thought differently, but had to admit that a) his sartorial standards were not something for which he was famed, and b) he was rather biased. 

“Takeaway, then?”

“Chinese,” she suggested.

“Oh, I was thinking more along the lines of a curry.”

“Flip ya’ for it? Loser gets to choose the movie.”

Dinner _and_ a film. Things were looking up. Perhaps later, if he was lucky, there’d be a bit of casual snogging. 

“Deal.”

With a grin, Giles rooted around in his trouser pockets for a coin. Slowly, however, the grin began to fall away. 

“Giles,” said Buffy after a moment. “What’s up?”

“That furry little bastard has nicked my wallet!”

**Author's Note:**

> Almost, but not quite a year late.
> 
> It still counts, right? =D


End file.
